


Fallen Unto Realization

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2019 [10]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Broken Limb", "don't move", "stay with me", Angst, Arthur Whump, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Concussions, Day 12, Day 17, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Whumptober 2019, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 23:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21005795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2019, #12: "Don't Move" and #17: "Stay With Me"Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Broken Limb"Dutch knew he hadn't been the best father.He'd tried, dammit, he had. But Hosea had always been the better of the two.He only wished that it hadn't taken Arthur getting hurt for him to realize just how bad of a father he had been.





	Fallen Unto Realization

It’s amazing how quickly things can go wrong.

One moment, you’re walking around, looting the corpses of your enemies. It’s not your fault they’re dead of course, those damn O’Driscolls wouldn’t back down and you’d had to kill them in self defense, and there was no point in leaving useful supplies to rot.

And the next, the ground is giving out beneath your son.

_ “Dutch,” _

“Dutch!”

His hand had been in an O’Driscoll’s coat pocket, and he straightens up so suddenly that the corpse comes with him, the pocket ripping free and sending it thudding back to the ground. The alarm in Hosea’s voice, the fear in Arthur’s voice, already has his heart in his throat as he turns to look, dreading what he’ll see.

Arthur is near the edge of the cliff, surrounded by O’Driscoll corpses, eyes wide, hands up as though he’s at gunpoint. The way he has his legs spread would be funny at any other time, but the ground at the edge is crumbling away and, even from where Dutch stands, he can see the dry dirt beginning to crack. Hosea is wide eyed, body coiled, clearly wanting to step forward and help but fearful of putting any more weight on the ground, afraid that he will cause it to give way.

And Dutch… Dutch doesn’t know what to do. Everything screams at him to walk forward and grab Arthur, but that’s the absolute _ worst _ thing he could do then.

“Arthur, son,” his mind races, unable to break eye contact, his boy’s eyes wild and pleading as he looks at him, suddenly looking like the young street rat they took in so long ago, “step forward, slowly.”

Hosea shoots him a look: _ ‘What are you doing?!’ _ but he doesn’t have a better idea, so he turns back to Arthur, clenching his hands helplessly as Arthur, looking as uncertain as Dutch feels, begins to slide one of his feet forward, scuffing the dirt

the ground beneath his heel, the one that hadn’t moved but was taking just that little bit more of his weight, began to shatter, and he froze.

“Arthur, don’t move son,” Dutch tried to keep his panic out of his voice, finding himself without a plan. They needed to get Arthur away from the ledge, but every shift of his weight had the ground cracking more and more. He looked at Hosea, then Arthur, then at Hosea again, beginning to get an idea. Did he have his…? Dropping his hand to his hip, he felt the familiar, coarse rope, and thanked god that he hadn’t left it on The Count like he so often did.

He unraveled it from his waist, carefully making the loop as large as he could, vaguely seeing Hosea looking at him appraisingly. Dutch had never been as good as Arthur, or even Hosea, when it came to roping, but this was not a throw he could miss. “Put this around your waist, son, as tight as you can.”

Heart in his throat, he brought the lasso up and began to swing it above his head, hearing it woosh, gathering as much momentum as he could. He couldn’t miss this throw, he could _ not _ miss this throw, he could _ not _ miss this throw,

he threw the lasso

and Arthur caught it.

_ ‘Oh, thank god.’ _ Carefully, he began to edge towards Hosea as Arthur put the loop around his waist, tightening it as much as he could, knowing it was only just a fail-safe and praying they could get him off the cliff before it became necessary.

Dutch offered the end of the rope to Hosea, keeping a tight grip just a bit up, and the man hurried to grab it, winding it around his hand. “Alright, son,” Hosea’s voice shook, but he tried to put on a reassuring grin, “start walking towards us.” They braced themselves, digging their boots into the ground and grasping the rope so tight that it dug into their skin.

Arthur looked at them, eyes darting from Dutch’s to Hosea’s and back, and they gave him the best reassuring grins they could, although they knew their worry was obvious. Even still, though, he had endless amounts of faith in the both of them and, so, began to sidle forward, one painfully slow sliding step after the other.

“You’ve got it, son,” Hosea murmured,

“Just a bit further,” and it was a damned lie, but it seemed to settle some of his nerves, so Dutch continued to coax him on.

In the end, though, he only managed five steps.

There was an awful rumble, like far away thunder, and they all froze, Dutch breaking free first. “ARTHUR, MOVE!” Without a second thought, Arthur began to bolt forward, and for once Hosea was grateful for the boy’s blind loyalty, but he wasn’t fast enough, stumbling over the corpses

the ground dropped out from beneath him in a solid chunk, like a dropped plate, and their son vanished from view.

“Arthur!” They gasped, voices covered by Arthur’s blood-chilling scream, but already they were digging the heels of their boots into the ground, leaning back and grasping onto the rope as tightly as they could, bracing for the inevitable abrupt yank.

They were almost pulled off their feet from the force of his weight hitting the end of the rope, scream cutting off as the breath was knocked from his lungs. It took all they had to keep from dropping the rope as it tore through their hands, ripping flesh and burning what it didn’t cut, but they didn’t dare let go.

And then the rope jerked again, and they staggered back as there was no longer any tension on the rope, no weight to brace against.

There was a horrible scream, somehow worse than before, that cut off abruptly with an awful thud.

_ “Oh, God!” _

Hosea’s voice was oddly distorted, the world falling away from him, heart stopping in his chest.

_ “Oh, God, no!” _

Only vaguely aware of Hosea, of his bleeding hands as he ran forward, legs oddly weak, knees buckling with each step, still clinging to the blood-soaked lasso, dropping to his knees at the edge of the cliff, sturdy as ever, the loose dirt having fallen away along with a number of corpses and their _ son_.

“God, _ please. _”

He was terrified to look over the edge, but he needed to _ know._ Hosea was stumbling up behind him, uncaring of the pain in his knees as they popped, dropping to them and staining the ground with his blood as he braced himself on his palms.

Dutch gulped, and they shared a look—what would they see?

Their son, shattered on the ground? Bones broken limbs twisted impossibly? In a pool of blood, twitching, trying to curl in on himself as he suffered?

Or gone, out of sight, having fallen away into the bushes, the crags, where they couldn’t find him? Could only find streaks of blood, left to rot, his remains carried away by vultures and crows, pumas and whatever else got to them down there?

What he saw… well, it wasn’t good. But it wasn’t half so awful as he’d been imagining and, from the way Hosea sighed, he knew Hosea felt the same.

The boy was half curled on himself, a pool of blood slowly growing around his head. His arm under his head was visibly broken, even from where they knelt, but not twisted, not mangled beyond repair. And, from the looks of it, his other limbs were whole, but it was impossible to tell for sure.

“Arthur?”

Hosea called, but the boy didn’t respond.

Dutch’s heart leaped to his throat, “Arthur, son, can you hear us?”

Arthur didn’t respond, didn’t say a word. But… was he imagining it, or had his chest twitched? It looked like he was breathing, or was that his desperation making him see things that weren’t there?

“I’m going down there,” Dutch announced, and stood, wiping his hands off on his pants, dropping the rope that he hadn’t realized he was still holding. His hands stung, and left streaks of blood on the fabric, but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Hosea stood as well, bones audibly popping, telling him to “Wait, Dutch,”

Dutch whirled on him, baring his teeth in a snarl, “Wait?! I’m not going to wait while our boy could be dying!”

Hosea held his palms up placatingly, seeming not to notice the blood dripping to the ground, saying “Dutch, you can’t just climb down there, you’ll fall. Let me get my lasso, I’ll support you.” He didn’t wait for Dutch to answer, whistling for Silver Dollar, having sent the horse off to keep it from getting shot in the scuffle.

Dutch scowled, pacing in irritation, “Hosea-!” but the horse was already skidding to a stop, and Hosea was grabbing his lasso from the saddle, widening the loop and offering it to Dutch, taking a moment to slip his gloves on to protect his hands from any further damage, fearing dropping the rope.

The man all-but tore the noose from Hosea’s hands, hurrying to pull it over his head and fasten it around his waist, while Hosea tied the end to Silver Dollar’s saddle horn—the horse was much, much stronger than he was. “Alright, Dutch,” he said, and Dutch didn’t say a word, approaching the ledge, twisting and beginning to climb down, carefully picking hand-holds, Hosea feeding the rope slowly as he went, keeping a close eye on Silver Dollar.

Dutch hurried down the cliff-side, “I’m coming, Arthur, I’ve got you, son,” offering pointless platitudes that their boy might not even be hearing, but they made him feel better, helped him focus on something else other than his awful silence. Hosea was silent, listening for the ground, preparing to brace himself if it sounded like the cliff would give out again.

Finally, Dutch’s feet hit the ground, and Hosea wrapped the rest of the rope around Silver Dollar’s saddlehorn, giving him just enough slack to maneuver on the ledge. From here, thank god, he could see Arthur’s side rising and falling with rapid breaths, and he asked, “Arthur?”

The boy didn’t respond, and his heart raced in his ears. _ ‘Please, god, don’t take my son.’ _ Fighting the urge to run, fearing he’d lose his balance and fall off the ledge, he hurried to Arthur’s side, kneeling in front of him, trying to to ignore Arthur’s blood that stained his pants.

“Arthur?” he asked, running his fingers carefully through his hair, tangled and matted with blood, coming away tacky, “Son, please, can you hear me?”

Arthur’s eyes twitched, and his own burned suspiciously. He continued to run his fingers soothingly through his hair, making sure to stay well away from the side near the ground, not wanting to cause his boy any more pain than he was already in—”’tch?”

Dutch brought his free hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, waving up at Hosea without looking away from Arthur; their son was _ alive_! He was hurt, but he was moving and awake and talking! “It’s okay, Arthur, it’s okay.”

His eyes opened slowly, staring blankly up at Dutch, not registering him, and Dutch’s chest ached. His right pupil was blown so wide there was only the slightest ring of grey-glazed blue, and his left had shrunk so small that it was barely visible in the pool of out of place gray. The color was far too dull for his boy, and he knew without a doubt the boy had a horrible concussion, one that needed a real doctor to be treated, not Hosea or Susan or Herr Strauss.

“D’tch?” he asked again, and the man tried to smile, tried to reassure him, but could feel how tense his face was, how his smile was too stiff, bared a few too many teeth, hoped that Arthur didn’t notice.

“It’s me son, I’ve got you. I won’t let you go.” the boy shifted, tried to get his arms under him, cried out in pain, and he abandoned his soothing tone to bark “Don’t move!” Arthur looked so betrayed, so confused, not understanding why he was being yelled at, but obeyed, slumping back to the ground, whimpering as he shifted his shattered arm.

“S’rry.”

He lowered his voice again, softened it, felt bad for yelling, knew Arthur couldn’t comprehend the consequences of his actions, but he’d been so worried that Arthur would hurt himself further, ruin his arm beyond repair, that he’d acted without thinking, “Don’t apologize. Just… don’t move, son. You’re… you’re pretty messed up.”

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, licking his lips, shifted and groaned, stilled. “M’sssed up? What’d… how?”

He didn’t… he didn’t remember? Shit, his concussion was worse than he thought. They needed a doctor, they needed a doctor five minutes ago. “You fell, son. Don’t worry about it, just relax. I won’t let you go.”

Arthur turned his head to look at him, and Dutch grimaced, not liking how often his neck was unsupported, how much Arthur was moving his head, said again “Don’t move, son,” keeping the bite out of his tone.

This was a _ bad _ idea, but if it kept Arthur from moving his head, then surely it was okay? It would prevent any more damage, at least. As carefully as he could, murmuring an apology when Arthur cried out in pain, he wrapped his arms around his torso, cradled him and held him like he had little Jack when he was an infant, setting him in his lap as gently as he could. “Rest your head, son. Don’t move, alright?”

Arthur blinked up at him blearily, but managed, “Y-yeahhh, D’tch.” he relaxed onto his thigh, a comforting, warm weight, if he ignored the stickiness quickly soaking through his pants. There was a sudden gasp, and he looked down at Arthur, asking, alarmed,

“What’s wrong?”

Had he missed something? A wound on his head, a different one than the one that was still bleeding? He had been trying not to jostle Arthur as he dug for his handkerchief, but stopped.

“Arrrrm,” he managed, and Dutch could have slapped himself.

“Sorry, son, I’m so sorry,” he wrapped an arm around his head to hold him still as he carefully, as carefully as he could, chanting apologies as Arthur whimpered, adjusting his broken arm to keep as much weight off of it as he could. How could he have forgotten?

Finally getting the arm adjusted, he sat back, running his fingers through Arthur’s hair again, waiting for a moment before reaching for his handkerchief, not wanting to cause him any pain.

_ “Dutch!” _

Hosea’s voice caught his attention, and he looked up to see the man peering over the side of the cliff. From the tone of his voice, and how loud he’d raised it, it was obvious that he’d been calling to him for some time. He waved to show that he’d heard him.

_ “I’m going to get a doctor, stay with him!” _

‘Stay with him,’ he said. Like Dutch would leave him! But he threw him a thumbs-up, not wanting to shout next to Arthur’s ear, knowing he had to have the headache to end all headaches, still scratching his hair with his other hand.

Hosea nodded, backing away from the edge of the cliff. He unwound the rope from the saddle horn carefully, making sure to keep a good grip on it, walking over and fastening it tightly around the healthiest, sturdiest tree trunk he could find. Bracing his foot on the tree, he yanked on it abruptly, over and over, until he was finally satisfied that it would hold Dutch and Arthur if their ledge gave way, god forbid.

Mounting up, he looked back at the cliff, not wanting to leave them but knowing Arthur desperately needed a doctor. The nearest town was nearly an hours’ ride, and if he pushed Silver Dollar as hard as he could he was certain he could make it in half that. Digging his spurs into the horse’s sides, they exploded into a gallop with a startled scream.

Dutch sighed, looking back at Arthur. His heart dropped into his stomach when he found the boy’s eyes closed, face slack. “Hey, hey, Arthur, son.” He dropped his hand down to tap at his cheek, breathing a sigh of relief when grey-blue eyes opened into slits. 

“T’red,” Arthur complained, and Dutch attempted an apologetic grin, continuing to stroke his hair, reaching and finally managing to fumble loose his handkerchief,

“I know, son, I know. But you can’t fall asleep, not yet. Just stay with me, please, son, stay with me.” he pleaded, watching as Arthur’s eyes fluttered, carefully holding his neck as still as he could as he raised the man up just a little, slipping his hand beneath his head and his leg to press the handkerchief against the gaping wound.

Arthur choked, tears dripping down his face as the wound burned with pain, and Dutch murmured, “Sorry, son, I’m so sorry,” but he couldn’t help but to be relieved, the boy seeming more awake now. “Just… just stay with me. You can rest soon, but stay awake with me for just a little longer.”

The position was horribly uncomfortable. Arthur was heavy in his lap, and he couldn’t lean back, one hand crushed between his heavy head and his thigh, quickly going numb, the other aching with the repetitive motion of stroking his hair. But Arthur was _ alive_, and he couldn’t find it in him to care, too glad to be able to sit there and watch his chest rise and fall, see him blink and hear him breathe, and his chest tightened when Arthur sighed, burrowing into his hand, curling into him like he used to when he was younger.

When had he stopped seeing Arthur as his son? When had Arthur become just another member of the gang, just a workhorse? What had happened to the teenager they’d taken in, that had become nothing shy of family? That he loved more than anything, even more than Hosea?

“L’ve you, D’tch.” he murmured, blinking blearily.

He had a lot to make up for when Arthur was better. Arthur was going to get time off, time to rest. The others were going to start working, start taking some of the strain off of Arthur’s shoulders, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

Dutch swallowed, his throat oddly dry, eyes burning, feeling horribly guilty, “I love you too, son.”


End file.
